Knowing
by Feather Moon
Summary: There's a difference between knowing and telling. hints of HarryDraco


Disclaimer: not mine. just borrowing.

* * *

Knowing

People want to know things about me.

I am, after all, the savior of the wizarding world. **sigh**

So the photographers and reporters constantly camped outside of my house, they're just a way of life.

They ask questions and I give answers.

Sometimes.

There are just some things I refuse to tell the public.

But most of the time, I reply to their pushy inquiries.

I tell them that Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger are the two most loyal and brave friends one could ask for. They stand by me no matter what. They support me, and they love me.

I tell them that my eating habits are atrocious. I don't want parents to go around telling their children I always eat my vegetables. Truth be told, I rarely eat my vegetables, and I love desserts. (Mrs. Weasley makes some delicious ones.)

When they ask about sports I can say with 100 percent certainty that I love Quidditch. The thrill of being up in the air, the wind whipping at my face, the clarity of mind that I find while flying. I love all of it. They ask me why I'm a seeker, and I tell them it was an accident. I was only trying to help a friend! Professor McGonagall took it from there, taking me to see Oliver Wood and all. They ask me why I stayed a seeker, and I tell them that there's a thrill there also. The thrill in being the one to end the game for the team, and my father was a seeker. It keeps me connected to him. I even tell them that I hope to become a professional Quidditch player someday, and inevitably they ask me why. They tell me I would do _so well_ working for the ministry. Every time, I sigh and tell them that I have spent my entire life _working for the ministry_, and now that it's finally over, I don't plan to go back.

I'm not sure why, but every reporter asks me about my Patronus charm. And every time, I tell them that it is my father in his truest form. I decline to comment further.

I tell them that I miss my parents, and Sirius.

I tell them that I spend the holidays with the Weasleys because they are warm and welcoming, and because I love them and they love me.

I tell them that I'm scared to graduate from Hogwarts, but at the same time, I'm ready to go. I'm going to miss it though. I wonder out loud whether I will get to teach there one day. That's another dream of mine, to teach children like myself and help them gain the knowledge they need to succeed as a wizard or witch.

Oh yes, there are many things that I tell the reporters.

But there are just as many things that I won't tell them.

I don't tell them that I cry every night from missing my parents and Sirius.

I don't tell them that I'm scared that once I get out into the real world, I won't be good enough for anyone. That I wonder whether I'll end up living on the streets, cold and alone.

I absolutely refuse to tell them what happened in those final moments of Voldemort's life. I can't tell them how scared I was. I can't even begin to describe the noise he emitted as the killing curse he had sent at me rebounded and disintegrated his body. I don't tell them that his ashes went up in smoke. I don't tell them that I broke down afterwards and cried for the sheer volume of what had just happened. I don't tell them that I still wonder, every day if he's really gone.

More than anything else, I can't tell them about Draco.

I don't tell them that we've been lovers now for almost a year. Or that he is the man I want to spend the rest of my life with. I don't tell them that I love just kissing him, my tongue slipping inside his mouth, laying him down gently on the bed, making love slowly. I don't tell them that I love slamming into him hard and deep, that I love the way we can have sex wild and rough. I don't tell them about his ticklish spots, or about the scar on his knee from a spell gone awry. I don't tell them that he's got this spot right under his earlobe that makes him melt every time. Or about how I turn into a puddle of goo when he blindfolds me and ties me up and marks my body. I don't tell them about the blowjobs in bathrooms of clubs, or about the stolen kisses in the Weasley's backyard. I can't tell them that I have a ring in the second drawer of my dresser just waiting to be slipped on Draco's finger. No, I don't tell the world any of that.

Because when you're as famous as I am, there are just some things you keep to yourself.


End file.
